Rosalie's Last Post

by Matthew Link

Taken from the collection The Secret Story Writer.

Sixty-seven years old and I find myself thinking the words I'm too old for this sort of thing more and more. Too old for a scotch and whisky of an afternoon. Too old for yomping up Steep Hill any more. Too old to meet another woman. Too old to take another bereavement. Too old to be sitting on a hard pew in the Cathedral, trying to pray and worrying about haemorrhoids at the same time.

Rosalie Mary Finlayson, the most wonderful woman ever to have lived in this cold world, died of pancreatic cancer twenty-six days, five hours, and thirty-three minutes ago. I wish I had died with her. In many ways, I did.

The first blog post came five days, eight hours, and two minutes after she died. I was sitting in my favourite armchair, staring at a blank screen, wondering whether today would bring anything new. I had spent the time since Rosalie left raging at God, at the NHS, at Lincoln General Hospital, at the Pope, at the Queen, the Prime Minister, the milkman, and the paper boy. Especially the paper boy. I yelled at him because he asked for the account to be brought up to date and surely he knew that Rosalie always dealt with that side of things? Why did he bother me with that? Couldn't he tell? Couldn't he see? I slammed the door on him and sank into my favourite armchair and stared at a blank screen and I would have cried the day away if I had any tears left in me.

And then my phone vibrated. New email. Angel Heart has posted a new post, it read. To unsubscribe from this blog, click here. My thumb froze over the delete button. Those two words. Angel Heart.

Instead, I clicked open.

My dearest Angel Heart,

I hope you will forgive a small indiscretion. This website asks for an email address, but I feel sure you will approve.

I made a decision last night. Doctor Wilbur tells me that all the chemo has had no effect. No remission is in sight. The cancer chewing its way through my pancreas is resilient and unresponsive. He says I must prepare.

So I have decided. No more treatment. No more false hope. No more migraines and no more head-scarves. I lay here last night praying and the time is right, my love. God is calling me home, and I will fight no longer.

But before I go, why don't we remember some of the good times? You and me, my darling. The two of us, invincible and indomitable. The day we were married, standing outside St Anselm's, wind-battered, clutching each other while your mother lost her hat and the photographer tried to get a steady shot. Remember? We cursed the English weather and said if our marriage could survive this battering, it could survive anything. And it did, didn't it? Jack and Rosalie against the world. Look out, world, you won't know what hit you!

Do you remember that coaster set your best man got us? Each one with an Egyptian god on it? A little odd when you think about it. We kept those coasters for years, in a little stack on the sideboard. I can remember each one so clearly, and yet I can't for the life of me remember your best man's name! Isn't that funny?

Anyway, sleep is calling and I must go. I've set this to post automatically in two months. Until next time, my love, my Angel Heart,

I am always your

Rosalie.

Was it a trick? Was it a joke? Some sick joke played on a grieving old man? The thought crossed my mind, but I didn't think so. Nobody else made contact. Nobody asked for money. And how would they know details about my wedding day? No con artist or prankster could know about the coasters my best man gave me, each illustrated with various animal-headed gods: Amun, Hathor, Ra, Horus. And nobody could know that my Rosalie always called me Angel Heart.

It seemed that she really had found a way to speak to me once more, and a cold weight shifted in my heart. I yomped up Steep Hill, I sat at the back of the Cathedral, and I thanked God.

And exactly a week later, my phone buzzed again. Another post had been posted.

Dearest Angel Heart,

Am I doing the right thing? If what I suspect is true and these words will post after I am gone, will I do more harm than good? Will my ramblings help to dry your eyes, or serve merely to prolong your time of healing?

If I know you, my darling, and I think I do, I believe you will appreciate this state of grace.

Danny Price. That was his name, of course. Your best man, remember? He of the Egyptian coasters. How could I ever forget? We met because of him. One October evening at the Student Union bar at Reading Polytechnic. Nineteen seventy-one. I remember it like yesterday. It was raining so hard, Gemma and I nearly stayed home. Life would have been very different if we had.

Gemma knew Danny. Same course, or something. Shared the same lecturer. And she lived across the hall from me. Just a quick drink, she'd said. Meet some new people. Why not? That's what uni is all about, right?

We were so cocky back then. I remember you sitting there in the window seat in an open collar shirt, hair past your shoulders, lit Lambert and Butler between your fingers, checking off reasons the European Common Market would be a disaster for Britain. Danny called you a bloody Commie, and looked for a fence you could chain yourself to. I didn't understand a word he said, but thought he must be very clever. Thought we could fix the world.

Ten minutes later, you bought me a drink. Two years later, you married me, and Danny gave us a set of Egyptian coasters.

You remember the good times, Jack, I know you do. Keep remembering them, Jack. Keep them alive. Keep that rainy night in October 1971 alive forever.

I loved you then and I love you still.

Rosalie.

I read the post with Rosalie's picture in front of me. It was an old one, faded, colours muted, on curling KODAK paper, and it must have been taken around the time of that night in the Student Union bar at Reading Poly. Maybe early seventy-two. She wore a stripy tank top over a wide-collared blouse, her hair centre parted, tumbling over her ears and shoulders. Big smile, the tip of her tongue just visible, hands jauntily on hips. She's standing in a park somewhere, kids' see-saw and sandpit just visible behind her. I rack my brains to remember it. Was it her mother's place in Grantham? Or maybe when we visited her sister in Leicester? Must have been around the time Susie was born. I stare at the picture, wishing I could jump inside it, roll back forty years and relive that day. How could I have not known that every moment with her was precious? Why was I not taking note of everything we did, everywhere we went, every marvellous thing she said? How could I let moments with wonderful Rosalie pass unrecorded, unmarked for posterity? I must have been mad. Was Rachel there? Would Susie recognise the playground? Maybe they could remember. I could phone them, drag details from their memories, put that day back together piece by piece. I'll phone them, I will.

I didn't phone them. I stared at the photo until darkness fell and I could see it no longer. And then I went to bed.

A week passed, and I sat in my armchair, hoping, hoping. My phone was in my hand, and I willed that screen to light up, the vibration to shiver through my fingers.

The post, when it came, was hard to read because of the tears in my eyes and the way my hand was shaking.

Dearest Angel Heart,

How are you today? Is it getting easier? Do my words help? I wish there was a way you could reply to me. You will be in to visit me soon, just as you are every day, but I can say nothing about these words I tap out on this tablet. This is future you I'm writing to, and future you cannot reply. But I am convinced that this is the right thing to do, and I shall go on doing it until the end comes. And the end is not far off now, my love. Each day more I am here is a gift from God, but soon I shall be able to thank Him face to face.

Understand, my love, that I am not afraid. I have known God for many years, and these past weeks we have grown closer. He is calling me, and I must go to Him. It is right, it is good. I pray that you will understand this as I have come to understand it.

Do you know this is the very same hospital Mike was born in, more than thirty years ago? I realised that the other day. It's changed a lot since 1982. A lot more glass and light. Same old beds, though, I sure of that. And probably the same sheets too!

You remember that day, I know you do. February 16^th, 1982. We thought he would come on Valentine's Day, remember? I was glad he was late in a way, because it meant you and I could still enjoy a romantic meal together every year, rather than spend Valentine's celebrating Mike's birthday. I even remember feeling a little guilty about that!

One of the greatest days of our lives, of course, although I wouldn't have said that at the time. An eight hour labour and when he came he was nearly seven pounds! And your mother ran her Cortina into a milk float on the way to the hospital. Last thing we needed. Had seven stitches put in her arm and then ran up the corridor to see her grandson being born! Could only happen to a Finlayson! Mike loved that story later on when we told him. The story of his birth.

Remember that, Jack? I may be gone, but Mike is right there with you, half me, half you. Cherish him, Jack, because while he's there with you, so am I.

Doctor Wilbur is coming. I must go.

Until next time, my love,

Rosalie.

Mike and Shona lived in a little two-up, two-down in Nottingham. A starter home, the estate agent called it. Enough room for a couple and a child, maybe two. Rosalie used to tease Mike about grandchildren, but he was always tight-lipped about it. Depends on what Shona wants, he used to say. Rosalie never got her grandchild, but maybe I will soon. He's regional manager for a chain of shoe retailers, which I think it is safe to say never crossed my mind when I held him in my arms as a newborn and dreamed of his future. But, still, he makes good money at it, and there are worse things to sell than shoes, as he has said to me on a number of occasions, and I find myself having to agree. He's a hard worker, Mike, he plugs away, but he was never ambitious. And you know what, I have a sneaky feeling this world runs on people like him.

He met Shona at the Peterborough store. He went there on an off-the-cuff inspection, 'but the only thing I was inspecting was a pretty lady in the women's bargain basement!' as he says whenever anybody asks at parties, to a polite ripple of laughter. Shoe-people's humour, he calls it. Another favourite is: 'Shoes: the only item to be 2-for-1 all year round!' Shona usually cuts him off after the second joke. 'Women's bargain basement indeed!' she said to me once. 'I never know if he's referring to the shoes or to me!'

They make a great couple. Mike's been very supportive since his mother died, and it occurred to me then that family would be more important than ever if we were to get through the weeks and months ahead. Rosalie was right about that too.

Mike came to see me a day or two after that post arrived. We spoke a long time of Rosalie and how life would be different without her. Many times I was on the point of telling him about the posts, but something always prevented me. Perhaps those words at the start of each one – Angel Heart – held me back. Because those words were for me and me alone. Rosalie called me that for nearly forty years.

A week later I stared at my phone at the appointed time. At the precise second, the post arrived, and joy filled my heart. I think I could scarcely have been happier if Rosalie herself had appeared before me, miraculously restored to life. A vision came to me – absurd really – of Rosalie up there in heaven with her laptop before her, hitting the send key and sitting back in satisfaction.

I opened the post.

Dearest Angel Heart,

Another day arrives and I am still here, praise God. I feel a little better today, a little less troubled. Maybe it's because there is sunshine shining through the window. Maybe God feels closer today. Maybe because I get the chance to write to my Angel Heart once more.

You remember why I started calling you that? You probably forgot years ago, but I haven't. I remember it all. The late seventies, before Mike. Just the two of us, facing the world in Peterborough, and mum fell ill. A cold, a touch of the flu, something that just wouldn't get better. She was in and out of hospital for the best part of six months. I tried to be at her bedside, be the dutiful daughter because Rachel was in Canada and I just had to be there for mum, but it was too much. I couldn't be there all day and all night. The stress of seeing her there. I was making myself ill too.

But you stepped up, my dearest Jack. My Angel Heart. You came home from work – long, hard days at the Post Office back then, you'll remember – and you came straight to the hospital and sat by mum's bedside for hours through the night so I could rest. You saved my soul during that terrible time, Angel Heart. You were right there for mum and me through the worst times, and I knew, I knew then that choosing to spend the rest of my life with you was the best choice I had ever made.

And now you're doing it for me too. I'm writing this with the sun still slanting over the roofs to the east, and the night nurse making her final rounds for the morning, and you'll be getting up right now, stepping out in the morning chill, waiting for the bus, on your way to spend another day sitting beside my bed reading me the paper, hoping for good news.

You are my Angel Heart, and I am forever your devoted wife,

Rosalie.

And my heart ached. Oh, how it ached. How could my beloved write such beautiful words about me when she had done so much more for me than I could ever hope to do for her? I cried in my chair for hours, and the house around me, so bright and full of life when she was in it, was dark and dreary and hopeless, and I knew I could never go on without her and I was stupid and blind ever to think I could.

That was the worst week of my life. Just when I dared to hope the grief was fading, it was back, stronger than ever, like a monster eating my heart. I raged at God, I barely ate, I barely left the house. Something dark seemed to close over me, and it had a voice. It had a voice, urging me, persuading me, to end this misery, to join my Rosalie, to get it over with. And I wanted to say yes.

Somehow I made it to the end of the week. Every moment of every day became about making it to Saturday morning and the moment when a new post would appear on my phone. Without that one hope, I do not think I would have made it through. Even now, my darling Rosalie kept me going. She was there for me when I needed her.

And I was rewarded by the post arriving.

My Angel,

I know you like no other. I know you better than I know myself. And I know what you're thinking. I know it as certainly as though you were sitting right here beside me. And if I could make the pain go away, my darling, I would do it in the thrum of a butterfly wing.

But I know too that my time approaches. The nights draw in and so does my time in this world. Even the sunlight grows dim. These may be my last words.

And so let them count. When I see you again, and I will see you again, I shall want you to tell me of all the wonderful things you have done with your life in the time since I left you. Wonderful, wonderful things that I want you to do in my name. With me. For me.

And to start you off, can you hear that doorbell? Yes, the doorbell, right then. It's me, my darling. I am ringing the doorbell. Go and answer it.

My eyes glistened as I looked up from the post. Could this be it? Could this be Rosalie's last post? What did she mean, answer the doorbell? Was it a metaphor?

But then, right then, the doorbell rang. I blinked, confused. The words were still there on the screen in front of me: It's me, my darling. I am ringing the doorbell. Go and answer it.

Numb, in shock, hardly knowing what to believe, I stood and walked on shaky knees to the door. Automatically, my fingers reached for the Yale lock and turned it. I pulled the door, easing it past the moment when it stuck in the jamb, as it always had. I raised my gaze and looked at who was waiting on the doorstep.

It's me, my darling. I am ringing the doorbell.

It was a DHL delivery man. In his forties, podgy, cap on crooked, holding an envelope.

'Jack Finlayson?'

'Ye-es.'

'Envelope for you. Sign here please.'

I did as I was told, still automatically.

'Who... who is it from?'

'I don't know, sir. An internet purchase. But we did have extra specific instructions to deliver it on this date and at this time.'

'Thank you.'

'No problem.' The envelop was in my hand and the delivery guy was already out of the garden gate and sliding into his van.

Still automatically, I walked into the kitchen and used a knife to slice it open. A letter and a ticket. The letter was headed Experiences of a Lifetime TM and the ticket was for 'a unique parascending experience'.

My phone buzzed. Another post from Rosalie. Against all convention, two in one day.

If you want to fly to the heavens to be near me, Angel Heart, this is the way to do it. And no other. Live this day for me, and every other day that comes after it. You have the heart of an angel, but angels also have wings. So strap them on, my love, and soar.

Adieu

R

xxx